


The Bonds That Break Us

by kandichi



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-15 18:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11812209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kandichi/pseuds/kandichi
Summary: In a world where subs struggle for human rights and slave trade dominates world economy, a young man runs from a heavily secured city. His ashen hair is matted with blood and his shirt is torn by the blows of a whip, but his movements are swift with practise as he dashes toward his escape.Follows Killua's journey through an alternate Hunter x Hunter universe.Geography roughly follows the cannon world, but I've made countries more regional. Cannon children are aged up a little and are around adolescence to early adulthood.Describes slavery in a fictional world, please be warned! I'll update the tags as I go.





	1. Chapter 1

_The time is now 12am. All subs must remain indoors. Unbound subs will be persecuted on sight. I repeat--_

The announcement rang loudly through the quiet city night, but it barely reached the ears of the young man perched atop the outermost wall of the city. His lithe figure was crouched down as the beam of a search light swept above him, and right after it passed he launched himself into the forest beyond.

Heavy rain matted his ashen hair to his face, where it melded with a sharp scarlet of blood. Similar lines of red bloomed against his white shirt, ones that could only have been left by the blows of a whip, but the youth seemed to pay them no mind as he danced through the trees with an agile fluidity.

Suddenly he paused, the patter of water as he skid to a halt the first sound his bare feet made against the mud. He tilted his head to one side, listening, and after a moment launched himself onto the lowest branch of a nearby tree, climbing further before pressing himself against the trunk.

A few moments later two cones of light appeared in the distance, sweeping around in a search through the woods. As they approached, two voices could gradually be heard through the rain.

“...’s not like they can get this far--hurp--‘nyway,” a drunken man slurred, “what’s they gonna do, jump o’er the wall? That ol’ thing’s gotta be half the size o’ Mt. Kukuroo.”

“Just shut up, why don’t you,” a female voice snapped back. Her tone pierced through the rain with a wave of sharpness, making the young man’s shoulders tense up behind the tree. “Orders are that we’re supposed to be on high alert tonight. Sober your ass up before you get me in shit.”

“Bah! I ain’t no sub,” the man complained, but didn’t say any more as they passed by the boy’s hiding spot.

He waited until they were far gone before climbing back down to the ground, and laid a land on his fluttering heart. His shaky sigh formed a puff of white in the cold spring air. “Scary lady. Wasted on patrol though,” he whispered to himself, listening again for a moment before launching back onto his escape path.

* * *

 

The city of Tamaran, nestled in the crevice between two mountains, was part of a prominent trade route and a key passage to the Republic of Mimbo. Its sweltering streets bustled with a medieval flair, shouts of merchants contending with the bustle of the crowds, their horse-drawn carts weaving around honking cars as they sang of their wares. But even the craftiest of their slogans couldn’t out-attract the crowds cramming around the city’s main square, filled with wooden platforms and rusty cages. Cages that were holding humans rather than goods. Slave traders.

A short figure leaned against a worn brick wall some distance away from the hubbub, watching one such display with an expressionless scrutiny. His head and torso were wrapped in a prickly cloak of Tamarian style, but a tuft of white hair poked out to separate him from the locals.

“...Young slaves, newly imported from Changa,” a peddler from the group was shouting, voice thick with a Mimbonian accent, “trained by the best Changan Masters, obedient, ready to serve...”

These slave mongers all wore Mimbonian garments, drab linens that hung loose and exposed much of their dark skin. The group of them working in a secluded area behind the stage brandished large bullwhips in their hands, swinging up loose dirt as they herded a group of chained slaves into one of their horse-drawn caravans.

A black-haired man was struggling at the back of the line, pulling his link in the chain taut. His light skin stood out from the rest, and he wore a white shirt that must have once been a pristine button down but was now hanging as shreds on his injured body.

“...No!” He seemed to be trying to shout, but his voice was muted and easily drowned out by the commotion around him. He pulled harder as the crack of a whip added yet another slice through his shirt. “I’m a free sub. You can’t do this!”

The peddler handling him frowned in annoyance, moustache curling misshapenly as he searched around their clearing. He eventually located a Mimbonian sitting amidst a mess of crates and boxes.

“Youpi!” he called, making the man raise his head and rise slowly. It was a large man, strongly built and wearing nothing to cover his toned torso. He pointed to the slave and said something, and the large man nodded.

“Silence! Get on now.” Youpi spoke deeply, grabbing at the black-haired slave. His accent was stronger than the others, making his words almost indistinguishable, but there was a strong underlying tone to it that rang clearly. The slave, who had been struggling harder when he saw the man, suddenly tensed and stilled under his touch. When the peddlers ahead yanked the chain again, he walked forward without further commotion.

Youpi humphed, and was about to return to his seat when he suddenly looked toward someone in the crowd. He beckoned his colleague and nodded towards it: a cloaked youth, standing at the edge of the commotion, a stone's throw away from their caravan. His cloak was identical to the people around him, but a long rip ran from one shoulder and was exposing his arm. Pale - a foreigner - and with a large whip welt still red with recency.

The mustached peddler nodded in response and pushed towards the youth in fast strides. “Yes, boy,” he called, and placed a hand roughly onto the youth’s whip wound as he approached.

The young man flinched in pain and turned quickly, hood falling off and exposing a head of messy ashen hair. His blue eyes widened in surprise and he opened his mouth to shout something, but the peddler squeezed his arm and murmured a deep, “quiet,” and his voice came out only as a soft sigh.

“Yes, I can show you to some of our other slaves,” the peddler said more loudly, pulling the young man towards their caravan. “Over here we have our slaves travelling to Mimbo…” he nodded to the large man as they reached the seclusion of their clearing, “...and you will be joining them, boy.”

He handed the youth to Youpi, who in turn grabbed his arm roughly and seated him between a pile of crates, hidden from view. White hair flew wildly as the youth struggled, but his arms were weak under the muscled man’s grasp.

“Be good, boy,” the large man demanded in his accented slur. He waved the other peddler off to return to the lineup of slaves before turning his small eyes back. The youth had relaxed where he sat, on his command, and he slowly released his grip. “You are not from here. You are from the south?”

“Zaban,” the youth responded, his eyes frantic but his body loose, “but originally from the Free States of Saherta.”

“You have been trained before?”

The youth’s head shook minutely in denial, but his answer was, “yes, sir. In Zaban.”

Youpi hummed in understanding. “You have run away from your Master.” It wasn’t exactly a question, and the youth’s lips narrowed tightly without answer. “It does not matter. What is your name?”

There was a brief moment of hesitation, then the word seemed to force its way past the youth's lips. “Killu.”

“Killu.” Youpi repeated, as he grabbed the youth's wrist painfully. His voice dropped a few tones to reverberate at a deep bass. “I am Master Youpi, and I claim you as my submissive. You will obey me, my friends. You will not run away. These are my rules.”

The youth tensed, wide eyes glued to the muscled man's as he heard the words. He struggled for a moment, shaking hard, until the slaver tightened his grip; then he languidly dropped to his knees.

"Yes, Master Youpi."

“You will put your hood on and join that line,” Youpi ordered. He pointed toward the now very short line of slaves gradually boarding the caravan.

The youth nodded again and moved at once, pulling on the hood of his cloak with somewhat shaky hands. A hand shot up to cover his heartbeat as soon as he'd made some distance, and he puffed out a long breath as he fell in line behind the other foreign man.

The wagon was a sturdy-looking, sharply rectangular thing, made of broad wooden planks that encased all sides of the exterior. There was only a single gap on the roof, where one of the planks had been pulled out to allow for some dim light inside, and it was being covered by a sheer piece of fabric, spotted with holes.

The young man eyed it dubiously as he climbed on. The thing seemed far too heavy for the single pair of horses pulling it, and far too small to accommodate the two dozen or so slaves inside.

Two poorly built benches ran along the length of the interior, currently being occupied by a few elderly and some lucky young. The rest stood tightly packed in the order they were chained, and the cloaked youth found a corner to himself as the door was locked behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

It didn’t take long for the caravan to jolt to a start. Most of the slaves it carried stared off blankly as it moved, tired eyes trained beyond the tight walls around them. But a vocal few, hidden somewhere amidst the crowd, were now filling the air with quiet sobs.

The foreign man was one of the few. Though not crying yet, he was rubbing desperately at his face and hair as he swallowed back sobs with admirable determination. Killua could feel the shudders that wracked against him; the first signs of a subdrop.

“Hey, don’t drop here,” he said tersely, jabbing the man beside him on the arm, “if you faint I have nowhere to go.”

“I won't,” The man said bitterly, turning on him with a face of disgust, “Heaven forbid I inconvenience you in my breakdown.”

Killua sighed as he pulled off his cloak, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. It was too thick for the crowded space, and it was starting to smell rancid in the heat. He had only needed it to cover his wounds in town.

“There aren’t any Doms here to guide you through a drop. Try to avoid it.”

The man’s expression loosened, and he nodded. “You're not Padokean?”

“I’ve been here a while,” he said indifferently.

The man, up close, was riddled with tiny marks and bruises far more than the other slaves; he must have caused the slavers a lot of trouble. A headstrong sub, likely brought up with silly ideals of free will and equality. “You’re from the Free States?”

“Yorknew,” the man nodded, confirming Killua’s suspicion, “I came here for a medical conference, but I was…” His expression knotted up again. “The...The way they catch you, it’s inhumane. Why are we here? Just because we’re subs? Why do we have no choice? Just because they, they can make us...make…” His breath caught in his throat and he was suddenly drawing them in faster than he could breathe out, shivering.

“D-Don’t,” Killua felt his stomach drop. He reached his hands up in a calming gesture, but the man had already gone weak where he stood and they ended up catching him instead. “...collapse.” He sighed.

A subdrop couldn't be stopped halfway, Killua knew. It was going to run its course. He frowned in frustration, running a hand through matted black locks as he stood squished against the corner. He shouldn’t have been doing this. It went against training, as it were. But to have another sub drop in his arms, he couldn't help but think of the times when he'd been dropping, cold and weak, and without anyone to ground him.

So he held the man for a long time, the slaves around them watching the dropping sub with sympathy, and Killua with a touch of concern; he whispered gentle words of encouragement, until the man’s breathing finally evened out and his shudders calmed. He eventually opened his eyes, pushing himself off Killua’s shoulder to lean against the wall beside them.

“...Thank you,” he croaked, wiping a few remaining tears off his face, “I, I don’t usually do that.”

Killua cleared his throat, shifting his eyes to stare at the hole in the ceiling. “It’s fine, it happens. Master Youpi is...a powerful Dom.”

His heart fluttered as he used the title, a hint influence pulling at him. He hadn't given his full name to the slaver, but even the fragments of his half-formed bond were trying to wedge their way into his mind. Unexpectedly powerful, for a third-rate slave trader. He laid a hand subtly on his chest and was pushing it away when he noticed the man staring at him.

“ _Master_ Youpi?” The man echoed when Killua spared him a sidelong glance, apparently taking it as an invitation. “Are you...his personal sub?”

“What? No.” Killua felt his lip curl. “I’m just--he bound me when he found me. Earlier today.”

“ _Oh_. You’re trained.” The realization was said with a tinge of disappointment. “I thought…no, nevermind.”

_You thought I’d help you escape?_

Trained slaves couldn't run. It was an unspoken but steadfast rule, because trained slaves could be bound by anyone. As long as a Dominant could use a half-decent pull, the slave was his to command.

Killua liked to think he was an exception to the rule. But Killua didn’t need to run.

They rocked on slowly in the arid savanna, and by sunset the carriage had become sauna of dripping sweat and suffocating heat. The slaves shifted around as best they could, and some approached to comfort those who had cried dry their tears, offering soft words of encouragement.

The foreign man - Leorio, as Killua had gotten to know him - couldn’t stop talking as they stood wedged in their corner, of the medical conferences he’d attended, the slaves he’d been helping, the hopes he had for the future. By the end of the day Killua felt like he knew more of the man than he had ever wished to.

“The ones from Zaban are the worst,” he was saying, as Killua watched the dusk sky through the broken ceiling, appreciating a scant breeze that blew through. “Something about their training there, it really breaks those poor subs. I looked after a child once who couldn’t eat her food without being told to. Had to hand-feed her for days before she’d even talk to me. But we found her a good place in the Free States. Nice, middle-aged Dom who treated her like his own daughter.” His voice broke, and Killua looked over to find him with a complicated expression. “I, I got an e-mail from her recently. She sounded so happy--like a different person. Lost my phone in the fray though.”

Killua put a hand on his shoulder, lost for words of encouragement. Frankly, trained slaves were broken creatures - happy when allowed to be, sad when they couldn’t please. He had known many of the kind, and they were all beyond saving.

He didn’t say that now, though. He simply patted the man’s shoulder and said, “you care about a lot.”

Leorio turned to look at him with sudden curiosity. “I never asked, where were you trained? Was it here in Padokea?”

“I, um.” He withdrew his hand a bit awkwardly.

He had never been to Zaban, but he’d thought it a good place to go. It was what he’d told the slavers - away from his Master, toward where he would fetch the highest price. Slave traders were predictably driven by their greed.

But after hearing Leorio’s stories of Zaban, he hesitated saying so. He didn’t need the pity.

“I’ve been serving a Padokean,” he finally averted. It was true enough. “He bought me in Heaven’s Arena a little less than a year ago.”

“You were trained in Heaven’s Arena?” Killua nodded. “I’ve never known a sub who made it out of there in one piece.”

“Yeah, well, we all have our moments.”

The carriage finally rolled to a halt as night settled, and the door unlocked as a wearied neighing floated in from the horses outside. The slaves inside stirred in anticipation. They were all tired and hungry, and in desperate need to replenish the water that had sweat off them in the heat.

Killua was the first to unboard, to see that they were parked in a vast stretch of grasslands, a few feet off from the winding dirt road. The wall to the Republic of Mimbo stretched oppressively along the horizon, a half mile tall at the gate, and Killua was glad he hadn’t tried to cross alone.

The other slaves were unchained and herded into neighbouring caravans, to fetch food and bedding for the peddlers as they lazed about chatting in their accented tongue. Killua was assigned to set up one of the large camps, along with another female slave, and they worked together in silence.

They were pushing in some of the last spikes when he made out bits of a commotion.

“Please...not eaten for days.”

“Beg me prettier, slave...give...this slice of bread.”

Killua rose to see it was coming from where the slaves had started to gather, in the clearing their camps had surrounded. An older slave, a man of at least fifty, was on his knees, gripping the shirt of a twenty-or-so slaver. The slaver held a loaf of bread, and he was waving around a slightly greened slice tauntingly.

Killua exchanged a pitying glance with the female slave, and cleared himself a patch of grass at the edge of the circle to wait his turn. He saw Leorio join beside him a few minutes later.

“Please, sir, I’m so hungry, I’ve not drunk, and I’m feeling faint.”

The slave was saying all the wrong things. Killua had seen too many of these types over the years. Unable to change, or unwilling to learn. If he didn’t learn to beg, he was sure to end up starved.

The slaver kicked him over, spitting onto his tanned face. “ _Prettier_ , slave. I do not care what you want. You get no bread today.”

Killua felt Leorio shift beside him, and shot him an apprehensive look. The man had gotten onto his haunches and was about to move, but hesitated as his stomach growled and settled back down, disgruntled.

The young man continued circling the clearing as the slaves thanked him, cutting out a thicker slice of bread when a slave particularly amused him. His knife paused as he approached the two foreign men, a scowl filling his face when he saw Leorio.

“None for you, free man,” he mocked, laughing as he turned away. Leorio stiffened where he sat, but only looked away defiantly, huffing.

Killua hid a smile as the slaver turned to him. He shifted onto his knees and lowered his face, directing his gaze through fluttering eyelashes at the man. He watched the slaver’s jaw droop and reached up both hands to accept the bread, showing the man his wrists.

“Thank you kindly, Master,” he said, and the man swallowed. “Please may this one have another?”

The slaver hesitated a moment, but Killua batted his lashes again and he nodded, cutting off a thicker slice and handing it to him with a wary sweep of the camp.

“Just this once, slave,” he said in a hushed tone, and Killua thanked him again with a smile.

Leorio gawked at him as the slaver walked away, and could scarcely hold his tongue until he was out of earshot.

“How did you do that?” He asked in a whisper, but Killua only shushed him. He settled back down to watch the slaver return with a pail of water, setting it in the middle of the clearing before sauntering back to his own camp to join his drunken partners.

The slaves around them rushed to quench their thirst, and Killua shoved the slice into Leorio’s hands when they were out of earshot.

“The submissive has power,” he said with a smug smile.

Leorio eyed him dubiously, but nodded. “Counting on you from now on, comrade,” he said.

Killua watched as he jogged over to the water bucket, found a spot next to the elderly slave, and slid the slice of bread discreetly into the old man’s hands. The old man looked at him in shock and said something, but Leorio shook his head.

Killua huffed as he bit into his share of the stale bread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The young man is Killua, I bet no one saw that coming :D  
> Leave me some feedback if you liked what you read; I'll update more often if people are interested!


	3. Chapter 3

Killua woke up in a mess of sweat, disoriented. He could see nothing in the pitch dark, and the air was damp with a sickly humidity, suffocating. For a moment he thought he was back in his solitary cell at Heaven’s Arena, waiting for Master Feitan to come for him again, and an icy chill rushed down his spine.

He didn’t want to go back; back to the nights of tears and blood, to the days lived in a haze, scarcely knowing who he was but for a slave, hanging on to himself by a thread and on the precipice of falling over. He scrambled toward his corner.

But as he moved he felt his leg brush up against another, warm with life and heavy with sleep. He wasn’t alone in his cell. He wasn’t in his cell. He wasn’t at Heaven’s Arena. Killua’s breathing gradually slowed, coming back to himself.

They were in the the Republic of Mimbo, a city a few days past the great gates. Youpi’s band had dropped them with the local traders upon arriving, instead loading their wagon with Mimbonian slaves and turning back the way they came. Killua and the other slaves were sorted like livestock by slavers whose speech they barely understood and shepherded into a severe cement holding cell, forgotten for days. Killua guessed that they were either waiting for an auction or the next caravan to take them on the road.

He couldn’t care less either way, and while Leorio had fretted over their situation Killua felt at ease. If he was auctioned, he could easily get away from the next halfwit to think him a good buy. If he was shipped away, it would only save him the trouble of finding another ride.

A flicker of dim light took him from his thoughts. It peeked through the cracks of the cell door, drawing closer from the direction of the main entrance and barely there in the dark of midnight. Not the mess slave, judging by the sound of the careful shuffling outside. The lock turned, slow with caution, and the normally loud steel bolts made only a quiet click in the night. He felt Leorio stir beside him, suddenly alert.

The door cracked open slowly and the light shone in, a dimmed smartphone screen that barely lit up the small cell. Holding it was a chubby man, sweating heavily in the heat, his small glasses sliding off his face slowly. He surveyed the slaves fast asleep in their tight rows and his eyes lit up as they landed on Leorio.

Leorio had also bolted up when he saw the man, and picked his way across the room to catch him in a tight hug. The chubby man huffed a laugh, holding him, and they spoke to each other in hushed whispers, a dialect that Killua recognized as Sahertan.

“Got the key from the kitchen boy. Lad was scared but I convinced him to come with us,” the man explained in heavy breaths, “Leo, my man, I thought I’d never see you again. We looked everywhere for you, no trace, nothing. Almost lost hope when Gel saw a description of you on the slave board in town. Took us forever to find this place.”

“I knew I could count on you guys.” Leorio’s voice sounded a bit broken with emotion. “I knew you would look for me when I--” He broke off, shaking his head, rubbing his eyes with his palm. “Let’s talk later. Let me get some others.”

His eyes swept around the room and he started circling around to rouse some of the slaves he had befriended over the days, those who had cried and had wanted to escape. Killua noticed he didn’t approach any of the trained slaves, and wondered with a bit of amusement where that left him. It didn’t matter, because he could guess where they were headed.

“Come with me,” Leorio whispered as they woke, gesturing them to be silent. “I’ll take you to Yorknew, to the Free States. We have connections, we'll get there safely. Find you all a good place to stay, honest work.” He spoke with a lilt in his voice, pointing them to the open door, and Killua could see the slaves’ faces light up in the dim light. They had all heard much of Leorio’s friends over the days, through hushed discussions and whispered stories. To think that one would actually come for them must have been a dream come true.

When Leorio had cleared them all he paused, hesitant, and finally turned to Killua. The emotion was raw on his face, anguished and somehow resigned. Killua hadn't moved since seeing the door open, and that had surely told him enough.

“Will you come with us?” Leorio still asked hopefully. “I--” he looked toward his friend with a desperate frown, “I know you were told not to run but if you need, Ginta can order you to come. It might be a shitty few days but as soon as we land we’ll get you some help, teach you how to resist the pull--”

Killua raised a hand to stop him, shaking his head. Anywhere else and he would have gladly left with this overly righteous fool, but he couldn’t go to the Free States. “I’ll be fine, Leorio,” he assured, “I take good care of myself. You saw what I can do.” He smiled as he got up, reaching a hand out to clasp the other man’s, and the hope died in Leorio’s eyes. “Good luck on your escape. I'll visit you if I ever go to Yorknew.” He was sure he would never go, but he said what Leorio needed to hear. The other slaves were rousing from their sleep; they would need to leave quickly.

Leorio seemed to notice it as well, and gave him a final, sad nod before he slunk out the door with the others. His hand slid out of Killua’s grasp, and it felt somehow cold all of a sudden. The chubby man gave him a nod in farewell, and slowly pulled the door shut behind them. The quiet click of the lock rang hollow in the half-empty room.

Killua felt his way along the wall and settled himself down in a corner he remembered was empty, careful not to wake the others. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to bid farewell to someone who might have been a friend, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. Slaves weren’t meant to have friends. He tried to reassure himself in that this one, at least, was going to a better place than the others.

He tried to forget the man as he closed his eyes, but he couldn’t sleep after that.

 

In the morning there was a progression of heavy footsteps outside, and the door unlocked to a group of Mimbonian slavers with chained manacles in their hands. Their faces twisted in confusion when they saw the half-empty room, and their bellows jolted the slaves awake, demanding to know where the others had gone. Luckily none of the slaves had seen Leorio leave, and Killua feigned innocence with them, shaking his head with wide, baffled eyes.

They were hosed down roughly and chained, and the licks of the whip bit sharply on his wet skin. But they left only faint red stripes, temporary marks that would fade with the day, and Killua knew what it meant: they were being auctioned.

The slavers pulled them away when they realized they would get no answer, seemingly pressed for time, and herded them into a clearing not far from where they were held. An eager crowd had already gathered around a worn wooden stage, and now their eyes swept through the line of slaves, analyzing. Killua was at the front of the line, and he analyzed the crowd in turn as a peddler dragged him forward by his hair.

“First we have our white one, trained in Zaban.” The peddler introduced him briefly and pushed him down onto his knees. Killua went willingly; he would be good for now, and escape would be easier later. “Starting at five hundred thousand.”

The crowd began calling out prices, and Killua watched them impassively. An old man with thinning, grey hair dominated for a while; he would be easy to please and easier to lose. Then a bespectacled woman seemed to take interest, and Killua watched the way she eyed him, gaze filled with want; he would bed her well, and take off while she slept.

His price hovered just below a million Jenny, and it seemed the lustful woman was about to win her prize. Killua had begun eyeing her through fluttered lashes when a mellow voice rang out from the back of the crowd.

“Two million.”

A hush settled around the stage, and all eyes turned to see who it was that took such a high interest in a slave. Killua’s gaze also snapped away from the woman, and landed on a dauntingly familiar man who had not been there a moment before. Long, black hair, pale, translucent skin, and a pair of charcoal black eyes that were smiling at him amicably. Illumi waved, and Killua felt his blood run cold.

The bustle of the market suddenly muted; the tug on his hair faded as his body turned numb. He could see nothing but his brother, who was walking up to the stage--to him--with an unfitting grin that dripped with satisfaction. He had found his favourite toy.

Or perhaps he never lost it to begin with. Killua had thought he was free to flee, had thought if he disappeared quickly enough he could never be found. He had forgotten that Illumi was never far away. He could spread his wings and practise his flight, but he was only a kite on a loose string, in the end.

There was nowhere to run. There had never been.

“Breathe, Killu,” his brother’s voice curled comfortably into his thoughts, and Killua felt himself immediately choke in a breath he’d not known he was holding. His pounding heart told him to breathe faster, but his breaths slowed and calmed. Illumi’s smile seemed to quirk a little as he turned toward the the man auctioning off his plaything.

He said something but Killua couldn’t hear it, and handed the man a card from the breast of his shirt. The slaver soon unlocked his cuffs, and a familiar hand laid on his arm, guiding him. He didn’t know how he ended up in a car, but he felt himself buckle the seatbelt when a quiet voice ordered it done.

Illumi ignored him as he drove, and Killua concentrated down at his hands, desperately failing to push down the part of him that screamed he had done wrong. It wasn’t until they’d pulled to a complete stop somewhere that Illumi broke the silence, placing a firm grip on Killua's wrist.

“My bond is still intact?” Illumi asked, voice buzzing with power, and he felt a familiar pull course effortlessly through the touch and into his body. Illumi’s bond, always in the back of his mind, came forward and joined with it seamlessly, and Killua was gone.

“Yes, sir” he whispered, not quite having the energy to put voice to his words. But Illumi could surely feel his will give in. Answering was only a matter of formality.

He was ushered into a hotel room, one with a nice hardwood floor that felt cold beneath his knees. Illumi threw himself down onto the bed, making himself comfortable as he tapped a few messages into his phone.

“Mother sends her greetings,” he informed casually, “and she wonders why you didn’t come home after you got away from the Arena. Should I tell her you went on a trip?” He didn’t know, but he nodded. Illumi continued typing for a while. “She says good kids come right home after school. She’s disappointed in you,” he updated, then his voice turned cold. “I am too, Killua.”

The name yanked at him like a leash, and Killua felt a rush of guilt consume him. He’d known his brother would be disappointed, so why did he run? Did he misbehave on purpose? He didn’t remember; he didn’t understand. He only knew that he had been bad, and he felt as if he might cry. “I’m sorry,” he choked.

“You will not do it again.”

“Yes, sir.”

His brother hummed in approval and his bond loosened its pull, just enough for Killua to breathe again.

Illumi’s voice regained its humour. “It’s a good thing I caught you before you flew to the Free States, little bird. Mother would be so sad.” No, he had been good for that, at least. He hadn’t gone with Leorio. “Oh--” Illumi seemed to read his thoughts, “you weren’t planning on going there, were you? You’re a _good boy_.”

A tingle ran down his spine, and Killua quivered with it. Illumi leaned in to run his nails through his hair, sending goosebumps across his body. He felt the bond lodge itself tighter into his will.

“Very well, then, tell me. Where was my little bird flying to?”

“I--to Zaban, I think. I didn’t have a plan. As far from home as possible.”

Illumi hummed again and was quiet for a while, toying with his hair. “You can go to Zaban, as a reward,” he finally said. Killua looked up to him in surprise, accidentally catching his brother’s eyes, and immediately hated himself for it. They kept him pinned there, drilling through his mind, eating slowly at his thoughts. “Don’t sneak in with traders this time,” Illumi was saying. “I don’t want to see any more whip marks on you.”

His brother moved and Killua gasped, finally released from the gaze and left disoriented and lost. He could no longer find himself in his mind, only a distant pounding headache on the edges of his awareness.

Illumi returned a few moments later and handed him a credit card along with a scribbled note. The letters refused to form into words. “Find that man when you get there. Get close to him, get his information, kill him. He deals with slaves, quite annoying. He’s been a thorn in Father’s side for some time.”

Killua nodded. It was a simple order. He understood that order.

“This hotel room is for you,” his brother’s voice became sweet, and he messed up Killua’s hair, and Killua was glad he’d been good. “I want you to get cleaned up before you leave. Buy yourself some nicer clothes with the money.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin, blackened chain, crouching to fasten it on. It looked prickly and unrefined, and it just barely fit end-to-end around Killua’s neck. He wondered how much it would scratch if the pull was gone. “Don’t take this off unless you need to play pretend. Apparently you need a reminder of who you belong to, Killu.”

Killua’s eyes dipped as he nodded, and he felt his brother scratch a finger under his chin. It made him shudder.

Illumi said nothing after that. Killua listened as he shuffled around the room, trying but failing to make sense of the sounds he made, until finally, he heard one that pushed past the fog of his mind. The door to the room was shutting. Illumi was gone.

Killua couldn’t move until hours later, and he only found himself again when the sunset had already poured in through the glass wall beside him.


End file.
